


A Little Death

by lushthemagicdragon



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lushthemagicdragon/pseuds/lushthemagicdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little death makes life more meaningful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Death

There is nothing soft or slow about their sex. Even when Sulu is torturing him, moving slowly and avoiding every move, every touch that would bring Chekov to the brink, it is anything but slow. The foreplay is a game, deeply understood and played to perfection; a game to see who can wound the other the best. Sulu has been playing this game all his life, ever since his own warm blood ran down his face, into his mouth and staining his skin. He has long since mastered the game, played with the best, and there was no greater prize for him than Chekov's scream choking out from around a gag as he pushes into him hard and squeezes the fresh cuts on his hips harder. 

It’s always move faster, breath faster, fuck faster. The faster, harder it is, the harder your heart beats in your chest, pumps blood through your body and out your pores. It feels like the sheets are soaked in their blood, like their skin is sticking together from the heat and pure oxygen that dries it, makes it coagulate. It's warm, so warm, but there is nothing there. They're completely dry, only sweat makes them slip and glare in the harsh overhead lights. It's the gag in Chekov's mouth that makes him dryer, sucking the saliva from his mouth and absorbing it the way the sheets pull his fingers to them. He's clenching them, gripping until his knuckles are whiter than the fabric would ever be, tearing with his nails and rutting. He won’t tear the gag out of his mouth with his free hands and allow himself the freedom of breath, spit and voice; he can't. The game doesn't go that way, he's long since learned his lesson. It was beaten into him, kicked past his skull and into his mind until it became a series of chemical reactions and nervous stimuli. 

Someday he’ll tear the gag out and let his tongue fall out of his mouth in a slew of language, but not now. Not when the heat that burns his insides is everything he needs and wants in their personal bubble. 

It's so close to everything either of them could want. Sulu's fingers make new bruises on his hips, a fresh purple over fading yellow, as he thrusts in harder and curses, insults dripping from his tongue like venom from a snake, hissed past his teeth. They could almost touch it, that desire for something deeper, bigger than them, so all-encompassing that it could swallow them up and eat them alive in an instant, but almost would never be enough. The heat between them is so cold, so frozen, that a single touch would lead to the deadliest of frostbites. 

It's so cold, so empty, but the heat is pooling between Chekov's legs, his muscles sore and his skin painfully tight. He wants nothing more than to pop the ring around his dick off and bring himself to completion. He needs to release, needs the sweet, burning heat to dissipate. It’s too hot, contrasting the ice between them that shadows their breaths. 

It is an impulse, an animalistic escape from the bear claw that has long since grabbed him from the inside and threatened to pull his insides out, and in an instant the ring was off and his hand was squeezing, pulling faster than his blood can pump, faster than his pores can sweat, faster than his brain can register the repercussions of his actions. It’s been so long since his tear ducts have been active that he can't quite remember the feeling of tears dripping down his cheeks and chin, but when he comes he feels like he could cry. The release of painful pressure is too good, too perfect to last in their empty, suffocating bubble and the palm of Sulu's hand slams down hard on the back of his head.

He's seeing stars, darkness flashing pink and blue behind his eyes, and he can barely register the sounds of angry gibberish above. He can feel it reverberating in his spine, and one more angled thrust wracks his body before Sulu's cock is gone and he's on his back against sticky, slowly drying fluid. It is so far removed from the blood that he can feel threatening to burst from old wounds at the rate his blood is pounding that he feels the hand of sickness clawing at him; a dull nausea from the blow to the head that keeps his ears ringing and the world spinning. 

Chekov can hear the biting insults passing from Sulu's lips, but he can't quite register them, not with the ache and the incessant ringing. Sulu is trying his best to be cold, he's usually so good at it that the ice burns better than any fire could, but the searing heat of his cock in his hand as he jerks himself to completion seems to melt the words into meaningless mush. It doesn't take long for him to come, spurting on Chekov's face and neck; he knows Chekov says he hates it and knows Chekov lies. It's all lies, all darkness and heat and ice and hard thumping in their chests. Lies and games, wrapped up in themselves and this web they weave tighter and tighter around each other. Spiders and prey; waiting and starving. 

 

The game is pointless, like playing chess in an air tight freezer box, but they keep on at it. It's a lifeline at sea, and the rope burns on their palms from grasping at it only serve to prove that they're alive. 

Ignorant slut. Idiot. Worthless piece of space junk. Chekov can't hear it, doesn't want to hear it as Sulu picks himself up, yanks the gag out of his mouth and punches him in the back for good measure. He could have hit him harder, could have angled that differently, made something break under skin and muscle, but the purposeful flaw is unspoken. 

For the moment Chekov can do nothing to compose himself, nothing to clean himself up like Sulu and prepare for another shift among other players. All he can do curl up in his blood, sweat and semen and revel in the pain. He doesn't like the pain, he loathes it with every fiber of his being. He hates being worthless, hates that Sulu knows all the buttons to push, hates that he's become a chew toy for the biggest dog to destroy and cherish. 

But it isn't about the pain, isn't about the plans he can formulate in the front of his mind and the tip of his tongue. It never was, never will be. It’s this game, this pointless, idiotic, hopeless, painful game that they play so well. A game with no victory, no end point, a game neither can pull away from, instead circling like hyenas tugged in by gravity. He coughs up his own saliva into the blood spotted sheets sticky with their mixed semen for it because he can, because he has to, because that is all that there is. This impossible end burned itself into his lungs and heart months ago, pulling his strings like a marionette. 

Behind closed doors, behind the gags and knives and searing insults, Chekov can handle it.

It is, after all, only a little death.


End file.
